


La Bête Noire

by thelilnan



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguing, Awkwardness, Conspiracy, Fights, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilnan/pseuds/thelilnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>La Bête Noire:</b> an idiomatic phrase meaning "pet peeve." Lit. "the black beast."</p>
<p>Paris, 1832. Valjean has been exposed by Thénardier to Javert, who is more than eager to finally arrest the man once and for all. There is, however, a problem; Valjean has been "dead" to the French government for almost 10 years. Javert finds himself struggling to provide evidence for a final conviction. Eventual Javert/Valjean.</p>
<p>*<i>rated for later chapters</i>*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The day was bright with summer’s exuberance in Paris. It was a day like many others in late May; hot, blinding, and relentless. On such days, higher society folk kept inside where they may mill about in light underclothes and escape the burning sun. On the street, the peasants and workers struggled in a daily routine, begging for money or sweating their pay, as they did every day. 

One such man who sweat more than enough for his daily fee was Inspector Javert, and though he was clad in that same woolen uniform that stifled him mercilessly, he was in a joyous humor. He’d cornered Thénardier’s conning gang in an alleyway, having caught them in the act of swindling an innocent come to pay alms (the fool, for many reasons) but, as it happened, the man of standing was not such a man at all. It had been revealed to him by Thénardier that the gentleman was in fact Jean Valjean. Upon hearing that long-forgotten name, Javert was whipped into a righteous frenzy. The taste of proper justice was thick on his tongue and he set, from that very alley, forthright to the _palais de justice_ to inform his superiors of this news.

Jean Valjean was alive! Alive and in _Paris_ , under Javert’s division. Of course, he’s always suspected Valjean would return. When he’d heard of the man’s drowning in his last escape, all those years ago, Javert had dismissed it immediately. A man such as Valjean would simply not meet such pathetic ends like _drowning_. No, more fitting, he saw the convict’s demise at the hands of the law, if not at the hands of one of her officers (and of course, it could be no other than him, but it was a fate he found distasteful for one reason or another.) Thankfully, his instincts were proven correct yet again and Valjean resurfaced like the scum he was, right back into Javert’s grasp. Oh what a sweet taste this justice would be! The dog would have his muzzle again, by God! Javert almost laughed aloud at the prospect. Giddiness was a heady drink.

All sorts of pride-laden thoughts invaded the inspector’s mind as he climbed the marble stairs into the hall. He might even be accommodated with a medal of honor for his cunning work. Maybe he’d get a parade. Maybe he could personally escort the convict back to Toulon and watch him fall beneath the full force of the law once more! His mind swam with wild fantasies for his proud future. He could see it all so clearly now, as he merrily strode through the pristine halls on the path to his bright destiny. There would be a ceremony in his honor. Valjean would be sentenced to the remainder of his days in hard labor. The wolf in sheep’s clothing would again be revealed!

“Jean Valjean drowned several years ago, Javert,” the chief dismissed mildly upon hearing the discovery and drank his morning coffee. Javert’s chin raised imperceptibly higher in proud opposition.

“A ruse, monsieur. It is typical of Valjean to pull tricks in his escape. He faked his death and has been living in Paris under a false name.”

“What evidence do you have to believe this man is Valjean?” His superior asked then, as if he did not appreciate the enormity of the discovery or Javert’s wicked cleverness (he didn’t.) Javert smugly prepared to respond, only to find his voice caught in his throat, suddenly dry. A moment passed before Javert realized that he only had the word of the con-man Thénardier as proof of Valjean’s identity.

The world pulled out from under his feet.

“Nothing, inspector?”

“I...” his voice was strained, eyes wide, “I recognize him! I knew Valjean in Toulon and in Montreuil—!”

“You have no evidence.”

Javert nearly moaned with despair, “Monsieur, I know it is Valjean!”

“Can you prove it?”

He felt his heart drop into his stomach, “... No.”

“Then,” his superior sat back with his own fold of papers, “I suggest you either find some proof or dismiss the notion of ghosts walking the streets of Paris. Good day, Javert.”

“Good day, monsieur,” he bowed deeply and left with his tail between his legs.

-

Javert paced the Parisian streets for hours after leaving the _palais_ , lost in thought. There had to be a way to prove it was Valjean. Perhaps the shackle scars on his wrists would suffice? But that wouldn’t prove he was _Valjean_ , would it. Many folks walked the streets, civil as lambs, concealing the remnants of a troubled youth in bad company. Javert himself bore scars of his past; scars that might match those of a beast like Jean Valjean, but he was _good_ and Valjean was not. His own scars were badges of survival; Valjean’s were a brand. If only the world would see the hellish flames that still lit those lines, see the stitches in the sheepskin that hid the wolf in the herd, then they would know. They would know for certain and see the ruse as Javert saw it. The would see the beast beneath the waistcoat of a gentleman.

Javert stopped in his aimless wandering to rub at his tired eyes. It was quite late by this point, with the sun hanging low and casting warm, sleepy light over the quieted city. He roused from the fogged thoughts to see he had arrived at the bridge over _pont-au-change_ : a place he liked to call a second home. It was here he came to solve his most perplexing crimes while pacing the ledge over the rolling water below, letting the noise of the current drown his thoughts into meditation.

He sorely needed it now.

Javert mounted the parapet and began his pace, toeing closer to the ledge on every pass and turn. Eventually, he was swinging his feet over the abyss, testing his body while his mind worked to solve his problem. It was in times like these he found his greatest peace.

It did not last long.

“Javert!” A voice called out, the cry clipped as if the owner could not help it. Javert looked up from his pacing, perfectly balanced on the edge between safety and certain death, to see Valjean by the opposite pillar. He looked frightened, like a deer in the gaze of a hunter. 

The two held their gaze for quite some time.

“Valjean,” Javert planted both feet firmly upon the concrete and turned to face the man. Neither one advanced.

“Yes,” the man relented with a sigh, rubbing his face, “Hello again.”

“Hello,” Javert repeated gruffly, “Is not the sort of thing we might say.”

“No,” Valjean agreed, “But it precedes the good bye I must soon bid. I’ll be leaving the city shortly.”

“Right you should. I’ll have the full force of Paris’ law enforcement upon you soon.”

Valjean recoiled nervously from the mention of the authorities and at once, Javert felt power like he not known since his days in Toulon.  A surge of youthful vigor strengthened his stance upon the ledge.

“Is that why you do not clap me in irons now, alone?” Valjean, damn him, was joking with him now, “Afraid my strength alone will win out again?”

“I was never afraid of your strength!” Javert could feel the power slipping away. He grappled to regain it, “Why did you call out my name?”

The man paused before advancing. Javert held firm.

“I thought you were going to fall,” Valjean admitted at length. His eyes remained downcast as he strode ever nearer, “For some reason, I don’t like that image.”

“A bleeding heart,” Javert scoffed. Valjean shrugged, reaching the parapet. He met Javert’s eyes with a plain expression. It unnerved Javert more than any hateful scowl the man had thrown him in Toulon, when their positions were much the same.

“Why aren’t you arresting me, Javert?”

Javert felt his chest constrict. Valjean likely knew. The man, damn him, was clever enough to figure out the conflict. He unfolded his hands from behind his back and crossed his arms, shifting his weight from the even, military stance to one of détente. Below, Valjean’s mouth almost twitched into a smile.

“Being dead affords you certain liberties,” Javert said at last, “Such as the fact that I am the only person in Paris who knows who you are.”

Valjean narrowed his eyes slightly. They knew that wasn’t true.

“Myself and Thénardier. But who would listen to a con-man?”

“Who indeed.”

A silence lapsed between them, far too comfortable for Javert’s liking. He soon dismounted the parapet and found himself once again annoyed at Valjean’s height. Javert himself was not a small man, but Valjean seemed to dwarf him in strength and size, which was always confounding. Any advantage he could wrest from their interactions was nothing short of a victory, but these were hard fought battles under the shadow of the older man. His mouth tightened with irritation.

“So where does this end?” Valjean prompted, clasping his hands behind his back.

“It ends with you behind bars, as it was intended.”

“I find that... unagreeable.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“I’m curious as to how you’re going to prove I _am_ Jean Valjean. The people here know me as Fauchelevent, if you were curious.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You should’ve been,” Valjean set to walking with a tiny jerk of his chin, prompting Javert to follow, “How else will you find my residence and search for some damning clue of my identity?”

“You’re mocking me,” the officer strode with clenched hands, alternating between glaring at the ground and to the smug man beside him.

“Apologies. I am a bit giddy at the moment.”

Javert did not snort. Valjean was not funny nor charming nor playful with his old nemesis (damn the very idea!) He was rude and gloating and a horrible thorn that twisted mercilessly into Javert’s side. Javert straightened his hat as they continued their walk, heading (at least, for Javert) to the housing for the gendarmerie. Valjean followed by his side.

“Our conversation is over.”

“This one is,” Valjean agreed, “But we have many more to start. And I fancy walking with you tonight.”

He never liked to claim he was clairvoyant, but Javert could tell this was the beginning of something hateful. He could see it in the twist of Valjean’s smirk and felt it in the urge to smile back.

What was becoming of them?


	2. Chapter 2

Valjean couldn’t believe his luck. Well, not luck. The grace of God, surely. But he felt lucky all the same.

To be discovered and have no consequences? To be free to live his life with easy breath, finally? He laughed openly as he had not done in years, tears threatening to fall in blessed relief. The tightness in his chest that had plagued him for so long had eased magnificently and he felt wholly revitalized once more. The change was magnificent though it troubled his daughter as he strode in the door, seemingly having returned from his nightly walk.

“Is everything alright, papa?”

“Yes,” Valjean nearly giggled and pulled his daughter close to his side, kissing her forehead, “Everything is wonderful.”

“I ask because you seem... different,” the girl shifted beside him, “And... I’ve been wondering about this morning in the square... With the officer.”

“Oh,” Valjean’s good humor dissipated slightly. Of course, there were questions still to be answered. Not everything was so easily resolved.

“I recognized that man,” Cosette began, pulling away from her father, “From those years ago when you came for me in Montfermeil. I remembered running and we ran again. But... it is not normal to run from an officer, papa.”

Valjean tugged at his shirtsleeves before taking a seat on the sette. Cosette stood before him, hands nervously clasped before her.

“Papa,” she asked quietly, hurt and worry and fear showing in her beautiful blue eyes. Valjean hoped his own hazel ones did not show his anxiety, “Are you a criminal?”

Valjean’s heart ached deeply.

“Cosette...”

“Forgive me!” she held her hands up sharply, shaking her head, “It is a horrible thing to ask. But papa, you must understand my confusion...”

“I understand it, Cosette,” he pat the space beside him, inviting the girl to sit with him. Valjean took a steadying breath, praying for God’s truth to come to him, “In light of... how things have changed for us, I think it must be that you finally know my story.”

He clasped his hands tightly, silently praying to strength before beginning.

He told her everything he’d been keeping inside the past eight years and she, blessed be, listened patiently through his tales. He spoke of his sister’s starving children, the burglary that cost him his life, and the years he’d worked in Toulon. He told her of his escapes, showed her the scars on his wrists, and spoke of a guard who’d been just in all things. He talked of the bishop that had shown him mercy and gave him a new life. He told her of Montreuil and meeting her mother. Told of her of the night he’d come to save her. Explained all things that had been hid away in shadows; that she had wondered about those many years. By the time he was done, the hour was late and he was overcome with humility for his sorry life. Cosette remained quiet by his side for some time, obviously ashamed and fearful of the liar she had once called papa. Valjean could feel his old heart breaking in the weight of her silence and begged forgiveness from God above.

It was then she stood, in the midst of his grief, and asked him if he wanted his evening tea.

There was nothing shameful in his daughter’s loving smile. Valjean dumbly accepted the offer and watched her go, as she always did in the evenings, and nearly sobbed with relief once more. God in Heaven continued to bless him in all things. He could feel his weary soul sigh with new peace.

Everything would be alright.

-

Elsewhere, Javert clutched his rosary and said his evening prayers. Prayers for guidance in the pursuit of justice and a way to out the wolf in sheep’s clothing. He muttered against his clenched hands, the points of the cross digging into the flesh of his palm, until, with a flare of realization, Javert remembered where he’d first received his coveted rosary string.

_Valjean_.

He very nearly cast them aside at the thought but resisted such blasphemy. Though the beads may have been from the devil himself, they were God’s primarily and Javert would respect them (though he did lay them down on the bed before hastily finishing his prayer.)

What a snake was this man, to wheedle his way into every aspect of Javert’s life without remorse. _The serpent in the Garden of Eden_ , Javert mused as he undressed for the night. It soothed him; the comparison of temptation and disguise in paradise. He fancied himself Adam outright, but then Javert felt his mind wander to the comparison of Eve. He was confronted by the serpent directly, of course, but then comes the fall of man, and Javert was not so weak to Valjean’s silver tongue. He’d be far from where he was at present if he were so easily duped.

“Something else,” he muttered contemptibly as he crawled beneath scratchy covers on a moldy mattress. Nothing came to mind. Javert fell into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

It took very little effort to find out where the apparent M. Ultime Fauchelevent resided. The local people knew well of him, the scum of the street especially. Javert scoffed at Valjean’s pathetic attempts to recreate his reputation in Montreuil-sur-Mer; that of Madeleine’s saintly generosity. Points for consistency, Javert supposed as he headed to the address one of the street urchins provided (for a price, annoyingly enough.) However, it was a futile effort. No amount of alms or charity could buy Valjean his freedom now, no matter how he begged or pleaded or dug deep in his pockets—

A young woman answered the door. Javert stared at the girl, fist raised to continue his relentless knocking. A small, queer look passed over the girl’s face.

“Inspector Javert,” she greeted with a small curtsy, “My father is not in at present but he should return soon. Are you here to take him away?”

Javert’s tongue felt thick in his mouth and he nodded in lieu of speech. Cosette welcomed him in.

“He explained everything to me,” she, in turn, explained as she took Javert’s coat and hat, “I don’t believe you have real reason to arrest him but I am 16 and silly, as papa says, so maybe I am wrong. Would you like any tea?”

“Yes,” Javert managed, rubbing at his beard in a daze. The girl disappeared into the kitchen, calm as a lamb in her meadow, untroubled by his intentions or presence. Of course, Valjean _would_ raise such a queer little thing, wouldn’t he.

That queer little thing brought him his tea promptly, coupled with milk and sugar. Javert drank from the delicate china under the girl’s patient gaze.

He was not prepared for this.

“Papa says you don’t have proof of his identity,” wonderful, he’d trained the girl to gloat, “How will you arrest him?”

“The law has its ways, girl,” Javert snapped sharply but she was not intimidated. Javert’s knees felt weak.

“My name is Cosette Fauchelevent,” she informed him calmly. Javert blushed, taken aback by her boldness, and finished his tea. His cup was collected and he was left to wander the sitting room, entirely out of sorts. 

What confounding family was this that had no respect for the law but remained calm and lawful at once? They were no Thénardiers. They did not steal or con (of which Javert knew) and remained in the skin of civil folk with money in their purses. But that defiance, instilled in the girl, was the very same in the eyes of 24601 all those years ago. Pride. Dignity. Damnable things that Toulon whipped out of men twice Valjean’s size, and yet he always remained ruthlessly dignified. Even lifting heavy beams for the amusement of the guards, he did it with defiance. The danger of a caged beast who made you worry if the iron was strong around his neck.

And he had had a daughter!

Javert felt light-headed and sick to his stomach at the very thought and guessed dimly the girl must have poisoned him. Oh, wouldn’t that just be the way for things to end for him? He sat in the master armchair and waited to regain his bearings while his mind groped for some sort of solace in the overwhelming conditions. Before him, the furnace burned and warmed his feet. He could hear the girl, Cosette, cleaning dishes in the kitchen.

Was this how Valjean lived his mornings?

The door opened then, interrupting his thoughts, and in strode the man himself with an armful of groceries from the shops in town. Javert watched him from behind the back of the chair, until Valjean noticed the would-be spy. His mouth twitched in a way that was caught between a smile and a frown and settled on neither.

“Inspector. Come to join us for _petit-déjeuner_?”

Javert rose from the chair and held his chin high, “I’ve come to arrest you, Valjean.”

The man snorted quietly at this and hung up his coat by the door, calm and composed, as Cosette had been. Javert wrinkled his nose briefly but otherwise made no movements from his proud posture. When Valjean faced him again, his mouth had decided to smile, whether by his own command or not, and he tapped his nose once, playfully, “Fauchelevent, if you please.”

Javert bristled with ire.

“Do not mock me, Valjean.”

“Fauchelevent.”

“Fine, yes!” Javert shouted sharply, hands thrown up in exasperation, “Fauchelevent or Madeleine or _Bonaparte_ for all I care! Whatever you choose to call yourself does not change who you really are. A _thief_.”

The amused warmth disappeared from Valjean’s eyes, replaced by savage contempt. It was the look he’d become known for in Toulon those years ago; a beast’s challenge in the eyes of a man. But Javert would not be frightened.

“I’ve paid my debt,” his voice was like thunder, low and dangerous, “I am a different man now.”

“And yet you wear the scars of a criminal.”

The two lapsed into an irritable silence, wherein it seemed to Javert that his heartbeat could fill that stillness. It thrummed deafeningly in his own ears; how could Valjean not hear his racing heart? Even if he could, he did not act upon this knowledge for long moments more.

“Anyway,” Valjean sighed and tugged on his shirtsleeves, apparently as much nervous tic now as it was in Montreuil. Javert watched him with mild curiosity, “Breakfast. Or would you rather leave?”

“I’ve not yet arrested you,” Javert grumbled quietly, crossing his arms.

“But you won’t sup with a criminal.”

“No.”

The older man looked somehow defeated at Javert’s resolve. As he marked it a private victory over the man, the enticing scents of fresh bread and hot coffee then wafted in to tantalize Javert’s chronically empty stomach. It lurched painfully, wanting and refuting food as the stomach of a starved man often did. Javert glanced to the kitchen. Valjean caught the look.

“Then at my insistence,” he went to the kitchen and returned with a palm-sized slice of baguette, “Have this. Or else I won’t let you leave.”

There was little point in fighting when his stomach knotted at the sight of fresh, warm food. Javert took the handful without complaint and bit into it violently.

“Good day, inspector,” Valjean smiled that damnable smile; the one Madeleine became infamous for; the one that all the young women about town had gossiped about. Javert met it with his own infamous scowl.

“Good day, monsieur.”

“Fauchelevent.”

“... Fauchelevent.”

-

Javert left in a tumultuous cloud of confusion and grief. To allow himself to eat from Valjean’s table! To concede to the man’s lies and parade this identity! He was sick with self-loathing. But, he supposed as he wandered the streets, the blame was really in Valjean’s silver tongue. He’d managed to convince the world he was another docile sheep, not the wolf Javert knew him to be. Anything was possible. He mustn’t be too hard on himself.

_Still_ , he inwardly sighed, _I should know better. I, of all people, should know better._

Such ruminations were curtailed at a sharp tug on Javert’s trousers; a shaking, crippled hand of a dirty beggar, wheezing for charity. Javert sneered, tugging his leg away.

“Please, monsieur,” the fragile voice pleaded, “Only a sou? For medicine and food...”

It took nothing more for Javert to tap his shoe to the beggar’s knee, a warning, and for the beggar to slap his foot away.

“You’re fooling no one, Thénardier,” Javert gruffly informed the man, “Your disguises need work.”

The man below shot him a look before rising to his feet, casting off the shabby clothes, “It worked on the others. How was I to know the chief inspector might grace our humble alley today?”

“You weren’t,” Javert brusquely replied.

“Such eloquence, inspector. You found _chez-Fauchelevent_ , I trust?”

“Of course I did. It was no chore. His pockets are open to the scum of the street.”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” said the con-man, scheming.

“You’ll have to be quick to his purse, he’s going back to prison where he belongs.”

Thénardier hummed with interest, wringing his filthy hands, “And you’re on your way now, I assume?”

Javert hesitated, mouth snapping shamefully shut. Thénardier leaned in, the foul stench of the street upon him like a winter coat.

“Inspector?”

“Valjean is dead, by all accounts. The law presumes me to be hunting a ghost.”

“And Fauchelevent has committed no crimes.”

“Nor Madeleine,” Javert mumbled, more to himself than the man before him.

“Who?”

“Forget that,” he waved dismissively, “The matter at hand is that there will be no evidence to prove his guilt. He walks like a phantom through the streets.”

“I thought they branded numbers into convicts for this reason.”

Javert sighed, rubbing his face, “It was after his initial conviction to Toulon. Years after. The only signs of his life before are in the lash marks on his back.”

“So reveal those. Simple enough.”

“And shall I also reveal mine, from a childhood in abuse? Or yours, for pick-pocketing?” Javert grabbed the man’s arm and pulled the sleeve away, revealing quick gashes in his arm from punishments for sticky fingers. Thénardier jerked his arm from the older man’s grasp, hiding the reminders of a dishonest life.

“Point made.”

“I don’t consult with con-men so readily, Thénardier.”

“Is this a consultation?” the man mocked, “I’ll have to charge.”

The idea lit a hateful spark in Javert’s eyes.

“If you wish to see Jean Valjean behind bars, you will follow my command and aid me in this pursuit.”

The lanky man considered this briefly before taking Javert’s hand in his two. His skeletal hands enveloped Javert’s larger one, squeezing tightly in agreement.

“We have an accord.”


	4. Chapter 4

Javert had learned quickly that consorting with thieves did not come cheaply. He’d been swindled into paying Thénardier a full 40 francs for a day of work and forced to promise more when Valjean was found out. It distressed Javert deeply to press the last of his money into the con-man’s hands, but justice was his duty and he would see it done. No matter the means. And at that price came Thénardier’s promise to use _legal_ means to out the con, but even then Javert doubted his word. Still, he supposed, better to enlist the help of a liar than to allow a beast to walk free.

He supposed.

And really, what more could be expected from him? Javert had enough work to occupy his time without the added work of collecting evidence against Fauchelevent. The summer heat was arousing Parisian crime at an alarming rate; nothing like years past when muggings were the norm and fights occasionally broke out. No, this summer was shaping up differently. All facets of petty crime were skyrocketing with the growing heat and for all his efforts, Javert and his men could not compete. He took it as a hateful sign of things to come; disaster was in the air and this chaos was only the first taste of it. The people were restless. Revolution was on everyone’s tongue.

_It will come, it will come, it will come..._

Javert reflected on these things with a weary mind while idly listening to a young woman’s complaints, saying he was personally responsible for losing her home and putting her on the streets. It was something he’d heard many times before from many mouths, including those in the galleys of Toulon. He’d had quite enough. Enough blame, enough stress, enough responsibility on his shoulders and certainly enough of the woman’s tears. It was then he cut off her tirade and sent her on her way, though not without a string of colorful curses. He ignored them, mind occupied with troubles and protests and the damnable smirk of Jean Valjean. He was an ever-present thought.

But even then when he’d rid himself of this single responsibility, the world continued to conspire against him. The sun had withdrawn sharply and overcast the city in a darkened grey without Javert’s notice. Around him, the street had been cleared. Everyone had seen the signs Javert had been too far-away to see.

It began to rain.

Javert did not react. Instead, he let the rain seep into his woolen uniform, drop by drop; let the world overtake him for one moment of weakness as the storm swelled above him. It was a minute or two before the downpour became to great to ignore further and Javert looked upward, wondering a single-worded prayer.

_Why?_

The rain provided little answer. Giving up, Javert wiped what rain he could from his face and began his route back home, calling his day’s work done for his own sake. His mind began plotting little conspiracies of what to do with the rest of his evening, alone and in his cold little flat that would be, by now, filling with rainwater. Javert fancied himself drinking tea and curling up in his uncomfortable little bed with his scratchy sheets and sleeping through the twilight and resting his mind. It seemed a prosperous and handsome idea; one Javert quickly grew greedy for.

However, these designs were curtailed when he caught a queer sight under the awning of a café: an older gentlemen ushering in a pack of street urchins to wait out the storm. One by one the little beggars disappeared inside the café where it was dry and safe, all now adopted by the gentlemen’s word.

“Come on, come on, in you go,” the man herded the last one inside and told them to stay put while he rustled for his purse. One approached him and tugged at his leg, asking to be taken home. The man smiled sadly and said he could not but all the same, pressed a franc into the little boy’s hands.

“You take that and buy food, you understand?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Valjean,” Javert sighed. Who else would it be when Javert was at his weakest and had barely the strength to stand? Valjean, indeed, looked up from his pack of little ones to the inspector in the street. The look they shared was inscrutable, ending sharply with a jerk of Valjean’s chin. 

_Come inside_. 

Javert followed, finding himself lost for another response.

“A man of your age should know better than to wander in the rain,” Valjean chided him as they took seats in the café. Javert unbuttoned his coat and hung it over his chair, allowing it to dry while they waited out the storm. About them, the street urchins chattered and played, asking for pastries from Valjean. It seemed he was duty-bound to them, at least for the afternoon, and Javert was forced to watch the man selflessly buy a meal for each and every begging child. Something deep inside the old inspector ached at the sight. Perhaps the poisoned memories of Madeleine, with his open purse and kind heart. He rubbed his face to forget such things.

“I would tell you not to play for my benefit,” Javert told him once Valjean retook his seat at the table, “But I’ll just hear the protestations as I’ve come to expect.”

“That the charity is genuine?”

“Yes, that one.”

Valjean’s mouth pulled at one corner as he surveyed the children, “Charity is charity. I don’t need to prove to you that my heart is in it. So long as the work is done.”

“You might try the ploy to spare you from...” he felt the children’s eyes upon him at the threat of finishing his sentence and Javert held his tongue. Valjean understood all the same.

“I think that threat has lost its weight, Javert,” the older man tapped his fingers on the table before regarding him again, “Have you come any closer to its fruition?”

“No,” Javert admitted, gaze cast downward. The frankness of this admission concerned Valjean.

“What’s wrong?”

It was a while before Javert responded. By which time, coffee was brought to their table and he cast Valjean a suspicious glance.

“I told them to add arsenic to yours,” Valjean winked. Javert laughed despite himself and shared a drink with him while the heavens rained down outside.

-

An hour in and the men were conversing plainly about all manners of things, not just their past of their present entanglement. Valjean told stories about raising Cosette. Javert detailed a number of arrests he’d seen through over the years, some even earning a deep laugh from the man opposite. And for the first time, Javert saw the smile as Montreuil had seen it; the warmth and the friendly crinkles at his eyes and felt it infect him and bring a broad grin to his own lips.

He was immediately overcome with frustration and tried to shove it away.

“You’ve raised a daughter,” Javert looked away from Valjean for the first time in some unnameable number of minutes, “But taken no wife.”

Valjean reflected upon this assessment and nodded, watching the urchins and making sure they behaved, “I never felt any need. Not just for Cosette but for myself. And you remember we kept private lives, living at the convent.”

“Nuns don’t make good wives,” Javert smirked. Valjean grinned mischievously back.

“Not exactly. But you, inspector, never found a madame Javert?”

To this, Javert grunted and crossed his arms, “My loyalty is to the law.”

“And the law has kept you warm at night.”

“Warm enough,” false. He was often frozen to the bone in his shabby quarters provided by the gendarmerie but he knew better than to let Valjean get hint of his discomfort. He knew well Madeleine’s stubborn charity still lay beneath Fauchelevent’s vest. Javert continued without meeting Valjean’s eye, “But like you, I never felt the need.”

Valjean nodded easily, toying with a spoon in his empty coffee cup, “Old men, set in our ways.”

“You’re the only old man here.”

The two men grinned together in their little corner of the shop. Outside, the rain had cleared and the little ones were wandering off to wherever they called home. One of them, the very same who had initially accosted Valjean, approached him now with a handful of bread. Valjean smiled and cocked his head curiously.

“What is this?”

“For you, monsieur. You wanted it.”

“No, child, the bread is for yourself. It’s all yours.”

Javert recognized the wonder that filled the child’s eyes at the idea of food for the night. He’d felt that same wonder when he was not much older, when he’d been left in the streets to fend for himself. The boy scampered off into the rain-soaked streets, clutching the bread tight as though someone might pluck it from his hands. It probably was the case; beggars could turn violent at any prospect of wealth or food. Javert’s lips tightened with empathy for the boy.

“Why do you bother,” he asked then when the boy was out of sight. Valjean regarded him with an eyebrow raised, “He’ll still be hungry when the bread is gone.”

“Why bother locking up criminals,” Valjean countered, “Men don’t change.”

“Justice,” Javert replied.

“Justice,” Valjean agreed.

They shared a silence in which they both came to understand each other and their struggles and views of life. It was excruciatingly intimate. Javert cleared his throat and stood, collecting his uniform jacket.

“I must return to work.”

“Indeed,” Valjean smiled privately. Javert thought for an insane moment that smile might be his alone, to consume greedily and keep for himself. He buttoned his jacket.

“Would you mind terribly if I walked with you a while?”

Javert donned his cap, “What you do is your own decision.”

“I’ll take it as an invitation.”

The inspector shook his head to hide his smile, “You would.”

The two set out from the café, into the muggy Paris streets at the end of a long day. The sun was beginning to set and it cast the city in a hazy glow, painting the streets in golden light. Valjean looked to Javert as they walked and noticed how the sun caught in his eyes, how the pewter of his uniform gleamed like precious silver. He found himself admiring the inspector in a way he had not done but scarcely in Montreuil-sur-Mer, when they were superior and subordinate; when Javert proved himself not to be the cruel officer he had called him in Toulon but a man of justice and fairness. Valjean could not help but grin at the merging memories of then and now, seeing the man before him older and wiser but retain the youthful stubbornness for which he was always known. He saw the age around his eyes and in the softened line of his proud jaw, saw the fire of Javert’s ambition like a youthful flame.

It was at this point Valjean realized he had been staring at Javert for quite some time and turned his gaze to the ground instead. The inspector had noticed all the same.

“You smile like a fool.”

“Perhaps I am a fool.”

“I’ve been saying this for years.”

Valjean grinned once more and thought, for one insane moment of his own, that he could see Javert grin as well.


	5. Chapter 5

It was nightfall when Valjean returned home from his walk with Javert. The two had gotten lost in each other’s company and the hours had slipped away from them as they conversed. It was strange, Valjean mused as he turned down a familiar road toward his home, how easily conversation came to them. Even as the mayor of Montreuil, their walks had never been so amiable, nor their talks so open. He’d come to find Javert to be a sharp conversationalist and a dry wit. Valjean could scarcely remember a time he’d laughed so much with someone other than Cosette. And for it to be Javert of all people, with a permanent scowl etched into his face and a sadness in his eyes? Valjean shook his head, grinning even now in the memories of the jokes the younger man had made. Many were at the expense of passers-by, pulling scandalized laughter from the older man with his observations and quips. He’d nudged Javert, hushing him for propriety’s sake, but the inspector had only smirked in response. He was absolutely devilish and scathing in his remarks, incorrigible and wicked in ways Valjean would have never thought possible.

It was a wonderful night.

At a late hour, they arrived at the apartments for the gendarmerie and they simultaneously tried to bid the other good night. They halted when they heard the other begin his own and stood there, silent and awkward. Valjean cleared his throat then and tipped his hat. Javert croaked out a small, “ _bonsoir_ ,” with his eyes firmly on the ground. It was an inexplicable moment upon a precipice neither one remembered mounting, but were perilously balanced together. Valjean felt hot beneath his skin. Javert could feel his stomach knot.

But why?

There was something then, in that moment between them, that Valjean did not recognize in all the interactions and farewells he’d ever had. Fidgeting with his shirtsleeves, he bowed shortly and left Javert, hurriedly making his way home in the darkened streets.

He was upon his home now, reflecting on this odd jitteriness that had overcome him, when Valjean saw a young man talking with Cosette by the gate. He frowned and hurried forth, unnoticing of the way the shadows shifted in the alley like a creature frightened of his presence. The shadows made no sound, tensing their grip upon the wall.

“Cosette!”

The young man with her jerked nervously when Valjean called out, spell between the two youths broken sharply. The boy, not terribly older than Cosette, stumbled back from the gate with his hands raised; an easy surrender with wide, fearful eyes. Valjean continued his hurried pace all the same.

“Papa! It’s fine, everything is fine!” his daughter beckoned, opening the wrought-iron gate to join the two and curtail any quarrel that might spring up.

“Who is this boy?” Valjean demanded with a jerk of his chin. The boy in question cowered back into the shadows, fists clenched in front of his chin in defense rather than confrontation.

“His name is Marius Pontmercy! We were only talking, papa.”

“Talking,” Valjean repeated flatly, crossing his arms. The boy, Marius, nodded fearfully.

“I saw her in the square a few days ago,” he stammered to explain, “I only wanted to see her again, monsieur.”

Valjean looked between the two with their big, fearful eyes and hopeful expressions and grunted shortly. He jerked the gate open again and stepped inside, ushering Cosette in once more with a large, possessive hand at her back. Marius attempted to follow the two as well but was met with the iron of the gate smacking him in the nose. Cosette clutched her hands together, shooting a look at her father.

“It is too late in the evening for company,” Valjean explained bluntly, mouth tight with irritation, “... But he may return for supper tomorrow.”

The two seemed pleased by this allowance, judging by the relieved and smitten gazes between them, and Marius soon left _chez-Fauchelevent_ , light and jaunty in step. In the garden, Cosette clutched her father’s hand and kissed his cheek, “Thank you, papa!”

Valjean grunted in response and the two entered the house. Privately, he lamented the loss of his good humor in exchange for the sour prospect of interloping boys and their wolfish designs for Cosette, but this bitterness did not seem to faze the young girl. She was atwitter with youthful delight, gushing about the fearful, cowardly boy as if he was the very king of France. Valjean scowled inwardly, having hoped Cosette would at least have had higher standards for her romantic interests. Then again, Cosette was very silly.

“That boy,” Valjean shucked his coat and hung it at the coat rack by the door, casting his daughter an eye, “Said he met you in the square?”

Cosette twirled her hair shyly, eyes downcast with innocence, but Valjean knew better than to lower his defenses to her tricks. She was a crafty negotiator; a trait he sorely regretted teaching her in her upbringing.

“Not meeting exactly. More of a... passing glance. But oh, papa! The way he looked at me... as if I was a rose in a desert!”

“Who’s been telling you about deserts?”

“And he was a handsome stallion—”

“More of a wobbling colt.”

“And we looked and looked at each other for what felt like ages! Nothing mattered but he and I. It was as if our souls finally reunited after centuries of being torn apart!”

“You’re sixteen.”

Cosette sighed exaggeratedly and twirled in a queer manner. It reminded Valjean of his sister, Jeanne, when she had first developed an interest for boys. In those days, before his troubles truly began, she would attract the attention of many young men in the town and she was delighted by it. She would rush home and right to her little brother, telling him of Serge and Guy and Luc; whoever had complimented her or gave her an eye. He never quite understood these things and never found himself to be either his sister or one of the boys; never found himself giddy at the attention of another or found himself distracted by a _mademoiselle_. Valjean had, even from a young age, dismissed his peculiarities as an ineptitude for family life and barely gave it much thought beyond that. Of course, he’d found himself changed by taking in Cosette, but had still never found himself longing for a wife or indeed ever admiring a _madame_ , even when the women were admiring him. Valjean wondered presently if something was wrong with him.

“—and he’s a lawyer, too!”

The news was enough to finally pull him from his brooding.

“A lawyer!” Valjean’s eyebrows shot up. Cosette nodded excitedly.

“Studying to be! He’s a student at the school. I think it’ll be a marvelous future for us.”

Valjean shook his head, dismissive of the silly girl, and told her to get ready for bed. She did so readily, caught up in a fantastic world inside her head, filled with that boy and his peculiar hair. At the end of the hall, however, she turned on her toe and wandered back to Valjean, who scarcely had had time to loosen his cravat.

“Where were you this evening, papa? I had to let your dinner get cold...”

Ah, yes. He’d been gone for some hours, hadn’t he? Poor Cosette must have worried terribly about him and wandered to the front gate to watch for him. Valjean turned sheepishly to his daughter.

“I was caught in the storm. My journey home was considerably delayed.”

Cosette canted her head curiously, “That was the early afternoon, papa. What else kept you?”

“I went for a walk,” he responded with a tight voice.

“A walk?” 

Damn her curious mind.

“Yes, Cosette, a walk. ... With inspector Javert.”

This seemed to trouble the girl considerably as she jerked her head up, intent on protesting his decision. Valjean held up his hands to deflect this but it was not a strong defense.

“Is that so wise, papa? He _is_ trying to put you in j—”

“Cosette, my love,” he cut her off before she could worry further, “We are safe from his... ambitions. There is nothing he can use to prove my past identity. So what danger could it be to walk with a friend?”

“He _is_ your friend?”

Valjean took pause then. It seemed natural to refer to the younger man as such, given their amiable evening together. He hadn’t given the title much thought.

“I have known Javert longer than anyone else,” he began quietly, wringing his hands as he considered his defense, “Longer than my own family when they were living. Should I not seek out his company when we share so many memories?”

The young woman before him reflected upon this before nodding and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She didn’t seem terribly convinced of his reasoning but what more could he say? Freedom from persecution had given him a revitalized peace. He wished to explore it more and see things as he could not under the gaze of a suspicious law. One of those things was the man he long thought to be his enemy; his _chasseur_. Valjean tucked his fisted hands under his chin for a moment more.

“Why don’t you go to bed, Cosette,” he finally suggested, wringing his hands down at his stomach. She nodded and bowed shortly.

“Good night, papa.”

“Good night, Cosette.”

-

“The good inspector told us not to hurt anyone and to only loot for evidence against Valjean,” Thénardier told his gang of boys just outside the gate to _chez-Fauchelevent_ , “But if some things go missin’... and if some people get ‘urt...” his grin twisted into something beastly, “Well who can place the blame?”

The men agreed and Thénardier’s company advanced toward the iron gate before a shadow blocked the lead’s path. It cried out urgently, “What are you doing here?”

“Éponine,” Thénardier grunted roughly, taking his daughter by the arm and escorting her away, “Go home. We’re enough without you.”

“Y-you can’t!” she cried, struggling away, “There’s nothing here for you! They live ordinary lives!”

“Been scouting for yourself, I see,” her father mumbled. He was mildly proud of the girl, “But we have our own business, girl. Go home.”

“I’ll scream!” Éponine threatened suddenly, surging up defiantly against the man almost twice her height, “I’ll let them know you’re here!”

“You utter a single _sound_ —!”

She screamed.

And Thénardier hit her.

It was too late by that point, as some of the men had broken open the gate and were charging toward the door. Inside, there were voices calling out; a father and his daughter, seeing if the other was alright. The men broke down the door, bursting inside to ransack the cottage.

“Cosette, lock the door!” a man called out from somewhere inside, his cry followed by a sharp slam of a door. The men advanced, greedy eyes looking for precious effects, hands twitching with the intent of filling them. Suddenly, they were accosted by the apparent M. Fauchelevent himself, wielding a fire iron and a murderous look. He roared and swung at them without fear, having rid himself of such things with men such as they from years ago. Thénardier’s men fell back, terrified and scrabbling to escape the swing of the deadly weapon, as M. Fauchelevent chased them out.

“Thénardier!” He shouted when the cowards had escaped like birds from the cannon fires of war, “You stay away! I won’t hesitate—”

“And expose your cruelty, m. _condamné_?” the voice mocked from somewhere in the shadows, pitched with soft, frightened whimpering. Valjean curiously stepped forward into the garden, “It’d be enough for another sentence, were you to harm my men!”

“Your men broke into my home!” Valjean shouted back.

“Me, then,” the voice was dripping with smug satisfaction, “What if you were to attack me, a man innocently outside your property? Do you feel the shackles again, Valjean? Do you smell that prison stench? You must remember it! I see nothing of that fine gentleman you’ve been trying to be. You’re just a beast beneath a waistcoat, aren’t you?”

Valjean shook with rage and roared again, attacking his gate with a mighty blow to ward off the thief. It seemed to work, as it was met with no reply other than fleeing footsteps and the steady rumbling of far-off thunder. Valjean cast the fire iron down sharply as the reverberation from the gate died away, dropping it as though it was fresh from the hearth, and staggered away with a terrified gaze. He fled inside, away from Thénardier’s threats, into his home.

It began to rain.

-

“Cosette!” Valjean rushed to his daughter’s room, knocking on the door with frantic speed, “Come out, Cosette, we’re safe now.”

The door opened shyly, a doeish gaze appearing slowly. Cosette opened it fully once she saw it was indeed her father and her father alone and embraced him tightly, turning her face into his chest. He held her for a long moment, sighing with relief.

“You are not hurt?” he finally asked.

“No, papa.”

“Good,” he sighed again and squeezed her, “But we must go now.”

Cosette pulled from his grasp sharply, stammering protests. Valjean would have none of it. He silenced her pleas and told her to collect her things, “We will go to our apartment on _Rue de l’Homme Armé_. We will be safe there.”

“Papa—!”

“Cosette! No more words!”

The girl slammed her bedroom door in tears but Valjean could not risk their lives against Thénardier and his men for Cosette’s romantic whims—he knew this was the reason he could hear her crying, even now. The sound was heart-wrenching for him but he steeled his heart and began to pack what valuables he could not forgo. The candlesticks were the first to disappear into his trunk.

_God in heaven_ , Valjean prayed a moment, hands wringing in the mockery of their prayer clasp, _Grant us safe passage in yet another escape_.

Valjean sat on his bed and rubbed his tired eyes.

Of course, nothing could be so easy for him, even when freedom was so assured.

_God in heaven_.


	6. Chapter 6

Cosette complained throughout the entire move to _Rue de l'Homme Armé,_ though it was not just about leaving her potential husband behind. It had triggered a flood of complaints she’d seemed to collect over their years together; this final ditch to freedom had merely ignited the flame of her fury. 

She complained about always having to leave people behind, always being alone, never knowing the joys of friendship beyond that of her father's. She complained about his secrecy and lies about his past. Blamed him for being a thief and a liar. Said this all with tears streaming down her cheeks. Valjean held firm beneath the onslaught, stoically ushering the hysterical girl inside the apartment and behind a closed door. In there, her shouting turned hysterical, her brave tears turning into body-wracking sobs. Valjean pulled his daughter close and held her through the fit, even when she lost articulation and resorted to screaming and beating at his chest.

It was nearly dawn by the time Cosette calmed down and went to bed. Valjean, for his part, could not think of sleep, though he sorely needed it. His thoughts were plagued singularly of the brutish Thénardier and his gang of thieves; what they might do to Cosette should they find them. Valjean's stomach lurched with detestable thoughts and fitfully he rolled over in his bed but sleep was far from coming. He imagined himself then, an old man behind the bars of Toulon with no hope of freedom again. He was still strong, true, but he was old— _felt_ older as the days passed by and Cosette bloomed into a young woman from the little girl he once knew. Valjean gripped his pillow tightly. That boy, Pontmercy. He would become a lawyer. He would be wealthy. Cosette would be in good care should they get married.

Was he really such a burden now? So useless and yet such a curse? A danger to the one person he would die for a hundred times but at once a threat her very life? Valjean rolled over once more and tried to shoo these thoughts away. Cosette loved him and he loved her. A father is not just one who provides for his children; he is a friend, a comforter, and a protector. These things he could always offer Cosette, even if she was taken away by Pontmercy. The thought settled him slightly but his night remained sleepless. Thoughts and questions plagued him, even when his worries about Cosette were tucked away. Without the girl, his life was to be so lonely. The chill of solitude ate at his bones and Valjean struggled against it but the thoughts would not leave.

He did not sleep that night.

-

It had not been an easy night for Javert either. Guilt had consumed his mind for long hours; guilt and confusion and shame, swirling in his mid like a maelstrom and making his stomach turn. The world had been such a simple place when Valjean was dead. It had felt empty but it was simple and cleanly cut. Good and evil were clear lines in his mind and punishment and reward would follow their due courses. But knowing Valjean as he'd dared to dream knowing Madeleine had shaken him to his core. This thief was not an evil man. He was a kind man with a playful humor, who enjoyed coffee and reading since he'd first learned how. He was a father; the last Valjean his bloodline knew. He was a survivor and a kindly old bear, as the women of Montreuil had said about Madeleine. And yet...

The crisis of identities had driven Javert to Valjean's home early the next morning to pursue the point further, only to belatedly notice the dent in the open gate. From this revelation he was shaken into action. Javert rushed to the door and pounded furiously upon it until it swung open to reveal a ransacked and gutted cottage. Anything of value was stripped from the interior or otherwise torn away. Javert ventured forward with caution, pistol drawn and footfall silent amongst the remains. An agonizing search of the home proved futile. No one was home.

The relief of coming away from such a site safely was immediately overtaken by severe panic; where was Valjean? Or his daughter? The home was absent of bodies or blood but what indication was that? Horrible, wild things flooded his mind and Javert found himself cursing himself for it. It was foolish to blame himself for an incident of pure chance but all the same, his mind whispered hateful things. _You could have stopped this. This was not how it was meant to end. Jean Valjean was killed by a thief and it's all your fault—_

And yet there he was, having returned from the dead once more; Jean Valjean waiting patiently at the façade of the _palais de justice_. Javert was suddenly overcome with the impulse to rush toward him and embrace him, like they were brothers separated for years. The idea disconcerted him deeply. He approached the other man with restraint instead, smothering the pleasant curl in his stomach when Valjean smiled at him.

"Javert," he clasped the inspector's hands. Javert tried not to feel the warmth through his gloves.

“Fauchelevent,” he choked on the name, eyes searching the man before him as if he did not believe him to be real. In a way, he didn’t. But then again he never knew what to believe about Jean Valjean.

“I’ve come to report a crime,” Valjean’s hands retreated swiftly and clasped behind his back, “My home was attacked last night—”

“I know,” Javert blurted out, “I was just there. Are you and your daughter alright?”

“Yes,” Valjean furrowed his brow curiously, “I drove the attackers out. But as a precaution, Cosette and I have moved to _Rue de l’Homme Armé_.”

Javert breathed easier then, “Good that you did. When I arrived at your home, I found it in shambles, as if vermin had picked it clean. I suspect your attackers returned when they knew you’d gone.”

_Wise strategy_ , he privately remarked, reflecting upon 24601’s rage and strength. He glanced up to see Valjean out-of-sorts about the news and clenched his hands to prevent reaching out to him. Still, he wanted to comfort the other man in some manner, though he was poorly practiced with such a thing. He cleared his throat.

“If you can describe your attackers, I will bring them to justice,” he offered lamely with an uncomfortable wave of his hand. A queer look passed over Valjean’s face; it seemed a distant relative of a smile. Javert clenched his jaw.

“It was Thénardier and his men,” Valjean finally provided, rubbing a hand over his face, “Seems he wants to collect a debt for my adopting Cosette.”

Javert chewed his lip with downcast eyes but thankfully Valjean did not seem to notice. He quoted a passage about greed instead, gesticulating a bit to make his point. Javert privately admired the passion.

“I will see that justice is done,” Javert mumbled under his breath, rubbing at the sweat on the back of his neck. Valjean copied the motion, overcome by the heat of the day. Javert offered the interior of the _palais_ and perhaps a glass of wine to cool him off but Valjean waved a dismissive hand, “I have some things to attend to today, thank you. But I did want to intercept you and report the crime...”

Valjean tugged at his collar.

“And invite you to supper at my home.”

Javert’s breath caught in his throat though he did not know why.

“Yes,” he replied automatically, horrendously aware of how Valjean’s eyes locked with his, “I would be... happy to.”

“Good,” Valjean exhaled, wringing his hands, “Good. I’m glad. Thank you.”

There was a moment then, as the last had occurred, where both men lapsed into silence but felt the weight of greater choices upon their shoulders. Though neither knew what kind of choice they might make or what destinies might lie ahead, they felt the tension and quickly looked away.

“I will leave you to your work,” Valjean eventually concluded with a quick bow, “And my home is at number five, _Rue de l’Homme Armée_. Does six this evening work?”

Javert nodded, tongue thick in his mouth. Valjean smiled briefly.

“I will see you at six.”

“Six,” Javert repeated and watched him go. His heart and soul ached for a moment before he turned and went inside the _palais_ to distract himself from such confusion and guilt.

_Guilt._ A poison that consumed his mind. He’d sent Thénardier to the home, hadn’t he? He’d sent a lion to him—no, not a lion. A mangy scavenger. A hyena, was that what those things were called? Sickly and laughing and caked with blood and malice, teeth bared and biting for the next scrap. Javert moaned, slumped in his desk chair, face hidden in his arms.

But was Valjean not a beast as well? A wolf in the fold? A wolf with kind eyes and a loving heart and gentle hands and open pockets? Javert’s stomach lurched into his throat.

It hurt to think.

“This is justice,” Javert moaned into the fold of his arms. Speaking the words allowed did not give them any more truth. He lapsed into mournful reflection for several hours, deaf to his superiors’ and colleagues’ knocking and ordering him outside.

“Tireless Javert, sleeping at his desk,” they muttered and stalked away. Javert laughed into the crook of his arm.

If only sleep would come. Then maybe his answers would be clear. As it was, he was left with a headache, a ghost, and a mongrel to deal with alone. Had things not been so clear only a week ago? Had Valjean not been dead, then alive as a criminal? _A wolf_ , Javert repeated to himself. _A fox_. A clever, sharp-faced fox who had deceived him with kindness and love and charity. Deceived him with _sincerity_. Oh, how hateful a word.

But he would be lying if he said he never fell for that fox’s wiles. Never imagined them in another life when they could be gentlemen together. When, during their walk, he saw them as friends.

_Friends_.

Javert had no friends. Javert was justice, unmovable, unloved, and unforgiving. He had no time nor need for friends. He had only the law for comfort and that was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Until that damnable man with his kind smile and open heart pierced his barricades and snuffed out the fire of content with his lonely life. Now the hearth was cold and Javert was left with moral quandary and a longing for more of that smile, more of those warm hands, more of that kindness he’d never experienced before. He had become greedy for it, anxious for when he might get another serving, another chance to be the focus of that kindness and charity and love—

“Fuck,” Javert articulated succinctly in the privacy of his office.

It was a relief.


	7. Chapter 7

Six o’ clock arrived before either Valjean or Javert were truly ready for it. Javert had shirked his responsibilities the entire day, too sick with grief and guilt to properly serve the law, and wandered home at half-five to get cleaned up. Valjean, meanwhile, had been rushing about, tidying his small, spartan home and cooking a worthy feast—as if Javert ate. He contemplated the notion while stewing vegetables with a twisted mouth. How did the officer live? As small and convenient as possible for a policeman’s measly salary? Did he eat more than bread and cheese? Did he eat at all?

Valjean burned the vegetables while thinking.

“Papa, I don’t understand,” said Cosette as she pushed a small roast into the oven to cook, “You seemed untroubled by the inspector only yesterday. You seem much disturbed now.”

Valjean’s laugh was flighty and nervous. He couldn’t explain the feeling, nor the look Cosette gave him from the corner of her eye. It seemed a knowing look, riddled with suspicion and a measure of contempt, still scorned about having to move to the apartment.

But all the same, dinner was prepared.

It was a little after six when Javert knocked at the door, twisting his hands together before him and looking oddly meek when Valjean opened the door. Valjean offered him a breathless smile, stuttering a welcome and ushering him inside, “You look good.”

“ _Merci_ ,” Javert muttered as he doffed his greatcoat and hat. Valjean encouraged him to undo his uniform coat as well, to relax, but no more than three top buttons would be unclasped. Valjean still counted it as a victory.

“Dinner will be ready shortly,” he waved his hands as if he could not control them, “A roast with vegetables and wine. Is that good?”

“Little point in contesting now,” Javert responded dryly, prompting an awkward laugh from the older man.

They stood in silence.

“Have—?”

It was then Cosette called Valjean away for more help in the kitchen, which could not be avoided. All the same, he apologized frantically to his guest and darted off, leaving Javert to take in the spartan living and dining rooms. Well, it was one room. The kitchen was barely more than an open alcove away in the tiny apartment, from which Javert could watch the two bustle about preparing dinner, but it seemed ages away and stiflingly sequestered. Javert fidgeted nervously, hot to his collar, and desperately wished Valjean was both again by his side and quit of him forever. In that moment, Javert despaired.

“Dinner!” Valjean called then as he and his daughter brought the freshly prepared meal to the table. It was a veritable feast to Javert’s eyes, and he nearly moaned at the enticing smell. Valjean caught this desperation and ushered him to the table. Cosette took her seat and poured the wine.

“This really is too much,” Javert half-heartedly protested, which almost covered the low rumble of his empty stomach. Valjean hushed him.

“It’s not enough,” a careful pause, “For an old friend.”

The inspector had scarcely ever been redder in his life.

“Monsieur,” Cosette interjected politely, “Would you like to say grace for the meal?”

Javert faltered, glancing to Valjean, “I don’t believe I would be very good at it. Valjean is a bishop by comparison; he should say grace.”

It was then Valjean’s turn to redden, “I say grace every night, inspector. You are our guest. Anything you say will suffice.”

Javert stammered through what he considered to be a sub-par grace, having never learned a proper blessing for food in his education. Still, Valjean deemed it acceptable and Javert ate, trying hard not to stuff his face and to savor the delicious dinner provided. Still, throughout, he could feel the eyes of the Fauchelevents upon him with various subtexts. Valjean’s gaze was shifting and nervous; bound to dart away if Javert tried to catch it—much like the man himself. Cosette’s was not quite contempt, but a heavy measure of suspicion and very protective of her father. It figured, and Javert didn’t blame her. He was, still, nominally searching for clues about Valjean, no matter how far the motive may slip from his mind.

“Monsieur l’inspecteur,” Cosette interrupted his brooding then, “You served as the chief inspector when my father was a mayor, yes?”

Javert nodded shortly and she continued, “What was he like?”

The inspector grunted, casting Valjean an eye, “Much the same as now. Much too trusting. Much too generous. Much to eager to forgive criminals.”

Valjean only laughed then and rested his chin in a hand, “Still sore, Javert?”

“You overlooked pickpocketing as a necessary hardship!” Javert protested then as he would not have under monsieur Madeleine.

“It is for many,” Valjean countered, “People do not commit crimes for the sake of evil, Javert.”

“Yes, yes, temper justice with mercy,” the other rolled his eyes, “Good to see consistency in your years, _Madeleine_.”

“Madeleine?” Cosette asked curiously. Valjean’s mouth twitched.

“A name I used to become a better man.”

“Another lie.”

Valjean and Javert met each other’s eyes.

“We all have our perspectives.”

“And I persist,” Javert continued testily, “Your mindless charity robs them of the desire to raise themselves from the gutter!”

“And what fueled your desire, Javert?” Valjean snapped. Javert cast him a sharp glare and raised his chin higher.

“I saw my life in two roads,” he began tersely, “One was that of a criminal, like my father and mother. The other of an officer. I knew I could never join society as others do. I would always be on the outskirts, toeing the line, held at arm’s length. So I chose then to protect it, rather than destroy it. My life’s course has been set ever since.”

There was a stoic silence before anyone dared follow the proud speech. Javert continued to pick at his food, posture ramrod straight, challenging Valjean to contradict him. He had raised himself from the gutter by his dedication to the law. Others could at least afford him the compliment of following him, rather than excusing indiscretions with pleas of necessary evil and circumstance, as if they were so different.

_My sister’s children were starving...!_

A plea he never forgot.

Presently, he looked to Valjean, who had returned to eating his supper, and saw, for a moment, ages ago. When a young man had gained ten years by starvation and brutal work. When Javert had met him; the beast of Toulon. He saw as well, the kind mayor of Montreuil. He saw these conflicting visages in Valjean’s face now, which looked at him curiously. A knee bumped his under the table. Javert lost his composure suddenly and looked away, jerking his knee from Valjean’s. Still, he could see his similarly embarrassed smile and cursed the man for it.

Confusion swarmed his mind for another time.

Luckily, conversation turned to more topical matters, mostly credited to Cosette’s curiosity of the legal system. _Strange that_ , Valjean internally remarked as she asked of recent trouble she’d overheard in the streets. Javert answered primly, with all propriety, and Valjean was at once reminded of his chief officer in Montreuil, reporting at the end of a trying day.

“Crime has certainly risen recently, you’re correct,” Javert confirmed, “Many people are speaking of on-coming revolution. I highly doubt any of their efforts will succeed. At most, it will be a quiet rebellion, snuffed out before anything serious can begin. You have no reason to worry.”

Cosette worried all the same.

“Why do you ask, Cosette?” Valjean asked quietly with a tilt of his head. She did not meet his eye.

“It was just a thought.”

The matter was forgotten.

Dinner ended hours later, after Cosette had gone to bed, leaving the two men to have tea in the main room. Javert barely drank his; barely shifted from a tense posture the entire time. Without Cosette’s presence, the world felt contracted to himself and Valjean, and it was more stress than Javert could bear alone.

Luckily, Jean-le-Cric was there to hold the load.

“Javert,” Valjean said after a lifetime of finishing his tea. The inspector looked over, face a stoic mask, but it was not hard to see the flush in his cheeks. Valjean tried, in turn, not to let himself be so flustered by the gaze, for both their sakes, “Thank you for coming tonight.”

“Of course,” Javert replied stiffly, looking away once more. But that was not the end of it. Valjean was shifting, as if preparing to stand, and Javert stood at once to prevent anything further from occurring.

“I must take my leave.”

Valjean looked as if Javert had shot him in the gut, “Oh.”

“I will... see you tomorrow,” Javert strained to promise the man, bowing sharply and hurrying to collect his coat and hat from the door. Valjean did not follow, but he did stand, and watched Javert leave.

Only when the two were quit of each other did they finally breathe and they found themselves missing the scent of the other’s cologne. It caused great despair and something akin to longing but neither let himself dwell on it too long.

That way lies madness, they were assured.


	8. Chapter 8

Despite his name known to only two men in all of Paris, Valjean continued to keep a reserved lifestyle. He went out when need-be; for groceries and giving alms and a walk every other night, but never cared to do more than this. So when General Lamarque finally passed away, he paid it little mind, save for a prayer for the politician’s soul and a moment of reflection. Everyone else, it seemed, could do nothing but gossip and conspire in the wake. Valjean decidedly kept his opinions to himself, whether in the market, in the streets, or at home when Cosette would prod Javert for political insight. The man was resolute and professional, as much as Valjean could see how much he was craving to divulge the inner workings of the political system to _someone_ , and Cosette came away with the barest hints of Paris’ grave future. Javert had spoken of rebellion. Cosette had been dismayed. Marius must’ve had something to do with it, Valjean decided. 

_Too much for an old man’s soul._

“You will not attend the funeral procession,” Javert said accusingly the night before, having stopped by for tea.

“I think not,” Valjean replied simply with a cant of his head, “I have little involvement in politics anyway. It might be more insult than respect to visit the man now, after he’s passed.”

Javert grunted.

“Something’s on your mind.”

“It is nothing.”

“It certainly is something,” Valjean pressed on, “You get a wrinkle in your brow when you are troubled.”

“I do not.”

“You always had it in Montreuil.”

Javert’s ears burned red for a brief second before he explained, “The funeral will... _inspire_ certain individuals. I’ll be attending to ensure things remain safe and no uprising occurs.”

“Oh is that all,” Valjean scoffed, “Just managing a rebellion.”

“ _Valjean_.”

“Just be careful, you great fool.”

Javert smiled, just the smallest amount, “I have a plan.”

-

True to what they had expected, a riot broke out. Valjean could hear the commotion from streets away; the gun fire and shouting and chaotic rage. Cosette was with him at the time and had dropped a plate when the first shots reached their ears. They shared a look.

“It will be alright,” Valjean promised her. He hoped the same promise would extend to Javert, wherever he was, whatever fool plan he was enacting.

-

It _had_ been going well. Javert was proud of himself for that. He returned to the barricade with warnings of the attack, telling the students to stand down and rest for the night. In his chest, a knife twisted, but justice overwhelmed it and Javert lied through his teeth. They were just beginning to plan their night when the street urchin spoke up.

“I know this man! He’s Inspector Javert!”

_Merde_.

Javert tried to run but was quickly overtaken by the boys. He cursed them and condemned them, thrashing like some wild thing and throwing blind punches to escape their grasp. He made a run for his baton, stowed away in the tavern, but was suddenly overcome by a personification of rage and violence, and the world went black. He heard, in the last moment, the sounds of footsteps as he fell to the floor.

He did not find comfort in that.

-

Some time later, the fog lifted and Javert awoke. Pain settled upon him like suffocation, slow and consuming until he could not think, could not breathe; only feel. He felt pain. He felt rage. It boiled within him and caused him to cry out. It was a whimper rather than the roar he intended, all his anger muted into a pathetic squeak. Shame overcame him and Javert hung his head in defeat.

No one even noticed.

-

Valjean’s home was dark when a small knock came at the door. It was a young boy, no older than ten, with a note clutched in his filthy hand. He was coated in ash and smelled like gunpowder. Valjean furrowed his brow at the little urchin.

“From the barricades, monsieur.”

Valjean took the letter (after pressing a few sous into the boy’s hand) and saw what he’d dreaded may come. A note from Marius.

They were losing the fight.

While it pained Valjean to consider losing Cosette to this Pontmercy boy, Valjean could not fathom a world with a broken-hearted Cosette. She, his sunshine, his angel, could not endure more pain. If Marius were to die, she would be devastated. Valjean would be devastated, seeing one so young cut down by soldiers’ fire; seeing the smile fade from Cosette’s eyes.

He had an obligation.

“Cosette,” Valjean called to her as he donned a coat, “Stay in tonight. I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Where are you going?”

He paused a moment, cold dread filling him as he lied to his daughter, “I have to speak to Javert.”

Valjean left, hoping those words were not his last.

-

The alley was a nightmare of blood and bodies illuminated by dying oil lamps. Valjean kept to the shadows, spying soldiers on rooftops and in alcoves, knowing he very well could die before his mission was complete. With a sickened stomach, he stripped a fallen soldier of his uniform to make safe passage, though the students at the barricade very nearly shot him on sight for it. Thank God for the little one, confirming his identity, so he could fight for their lives.

“Marius,” Valjean exhaled with relief once he saw the boy. He looked decades older, coated in ash with tear-stained cheeks. His friend had been killed. She was barely Cosette’s age.

“I believe,” Marius continued numbly, turning to the tavern, “You have a friend here.”

Valjean looked past him and saw something that made his heart sick. Javert, caught in a noose with blood down his face, tied to a post like a beaten dog.

“Javert,” he managed to choke out, reaching toward him. The leader, a handsome boy with fiery eyes, narrowed his gaze.

“You know him?”

The threat of mutiny was upon his back like a blazing fire. He wrapped a protective cloth tighter to his chest to avoid the flames.

“He is an officer who pursues me, claiming I am a criminal,” Valjean explained quietly, “I stole bread for my sister’s children. Would you not do the same?”

The leader seemed pleasantly interested in this.

“Then revenge sits present in your heart.”

“It does,” Valjean regarded the beaten man again, “If you would... let me have the man, so I may take back the years stolen from me in prison.”

His request was granted with an enthusiasm from the boy that frankly concerned Valjean, but he didn’t dwell on it for long. He hefted Javert to his feet, hands still secured but neck free of his noose, and roughly escorted him to the back alley, away from the boys. Javert was only half-coherent, probably from the gash on his head, and needed Valjean’s entire strength to stay on his feet. When they were shrouded in darkness and away from prying eyes, Valjean cut Javert’s hands free and embraced him tightly.

“You damned fool,” he muttered, hands curled into the man’s back. Javert’s arms weakly looped around him while he rested against his strong frame.

“I never thought...”

“No. You didn’t. This is your grand plan, is it?” Valjean pulled away a bit, “Worker’s clothes and a down-turned chin? What were you thinking??”

Javert smiled weakly and pressed his forehead to Valjean’s.

“I thought it was a good disguise.”

“You’re a fool,” Valjean chided quietly. His hand came up to cup Javert’s chin, the other holding him upright, “What if I had lost you?”

The heaviness of this question sat between them like an anchor, dragging them into the depths of something they did not understand. Javert huffed quietly and let his head rest on Valjean’s shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“I did not come for you, fool,” Valjean ran a hand through the man’s short-cropped and blood-stained hair, “And you cannot terry here. They’ll kill us both if they know...”

“Affection,” Javert slurred, still woozy from the injuries, “I know.”

“Affection,” Valjean repeated.

“Mm.”

They stood a moment more before Javert stepped away, looking anywhere but Valjean. He turned, staggering away and presumably somewhere to get his head fixed, and Valjean watched him go.

“Javert,” he called, just loud enough so he would hear, but could not find words for everything he wanted to say. Javert watched him from the distance, waiting for him, but saw Valjean had been struck quiet in the bleak future that lay out for him. He clenched his hands and disappeared, barely flinching when Valjean fired his pistol at the wall between them.

Not for the first, nor certainly the last time, their anxious hearts ached for the other.


	9. Chapter 9

A night of fire and death led Valjean to one of the lowest points of his life; he could say this without argument. While Toulon had been a certain Hell he would never forget, it couldn’t quite live up to the horrors of navigating a sewer with a dying boy on his back after seeing countless other lives end so sharply. Those boys. They were brave, but foolish. Valjean both admired and wept for them, even as he struggled to keep his head above the filth.

Not for a second did he lose his will, however, while trekking through the leviathan's bowels. Marius was a good boy. He would give Cosette a life of love and comfort; Valjean knew this, dedicated the entirety of his strength to ensuring the boy would live. Though many a time, as he lost his footing and sunk deeper into the sludge, Valjean wondered if he were simply digging two graves for Cosette to mourn rather than abandoning the one.

It was night once more when he emerged, aching, stinking, and praising God for letting him live. There was the matter of mounting the stairs and locating the hospital, of course, but being out of the belly of the beast was cause for  celebration. He hefted the unconscious boy to the stones and sat, for a moment, laughing and sobbing in the same breath. Relief was a thick and heady drug.

“Valjean!”

His head jerked up to see Javert, standing at the top of the stairs, fine and pristine in his formal attire, curiously shaking. Valjean grinned, thinking himself a ridiculous sight in comparison the finely groomed officer quickly running toward him, worried etched into his expressive face.

“ _Bonsoir, monsieur_ ,” he stood shakily, leaning against the wall.

“You damned fool,” Javert nearly shouted. The shaking did not cease, “Where the hell have you been?!”

“It seems an obvious question.”

“Be quiet! I thought you were dead.”

“Well, I’m not. But the boy nearly is,” Valjean regarded Marius, “I have to get him to hospital. If it’s not too late.”

Javert bit back an angry slight and stooped down to collect the filth-laden boy. Valjean reached to stop him, “Javert.”

“You’ve been carrying him for hours,” the younger man all but growled, “Let me shoulder _something_ of yours, _Jean-le-Cric_.”

Valjean stood back, watched Javert heft the boy over his shoulder, and they mounted the stairs together. The filth of the sewer tarnished Javert’s uniform immediately and permanently, which Valjean lamented, but Javert made it clear he would not hear a single protest for his own sake. He carried Marius all the way to the hospital with Valjean by his side, and never buckled nor complained once.

-

The nurses were horrified to discover them the way they were, but Valjean insisted it was only Marius who was cause for concern. They took him, along with the two men, to the bathing area and scrubbed them all down. The embarrassment Valjean suffered was worth the amusement of seeing Javert, a man in his fifties, blush like a virgin on her wedding night and swat the sisters away. Only when the both of them were clean did they leave the men to their privacy and to finish their baths. This is when the washroom grew uncomfortably silent.

Valjean kept his back turned to Javert to save some of his badly bruised ego, but Javert could not afford Valjean the same curtesy. He was too damned curious to see him, though admittedly not from an entirely innocent motive.

The scars upon Valjean’s back were unlike anything Javert had ever seen. He was all too familiar with their origin; one quickly learns not to be squeamish in Toulon. However, he’d never seen the aftermath aged by so many years. It was a messy web of lines from the lash. Some were pale, some still thick and red (probably still tender to the touch.) Javert could not remove his gaze if he felt inclined to do so, but he honestly had more interest in studying Valjean than he had in preserving his dignity. It was then Valjean turned and spared him an apologetic smile.

“They’re ugly,” Valjean agreed, stooping to collect more bath water to rinse himself with, “I’m thankful I don’t have to see them.”

“You can feel them,” Javert ran a hand over his own face, shamed and sickened by his perversions.

“Every now and then, yes. They still ache sometimes but it’s nothing present in my mind. I’m sure you feel them same of your scars.” He gestured to Javert’s sparse ones that decorated his thighs and chest. They were his only memories of his mother. He looked to Valjean once more.

“Mine do not form the whole of my back.”

“I cannot see mine by standing before a mirror.”

Javert grunted his conceit and Valjean turned to gather towels for them. That was when Javert saw it. How did he miss it before, when gazing upon Valjean’s back in his sick perversion?? It was there, plain as day. A black and bold etching on the base of his neck. 

**24601**.

The world dropped away.

-

Javert was running.

His clothes were wet and the smell of the sewer was still upon them, but he wore them and he ran. He ran as hard and fast as he could in the darkened streets until his body ached and his lungs burned and his eyes were wet but he kept running.

He ran to Pont-au-change.

He caught himself at the parapet, panting and shaking uncontrollably. He couldn’t stop crying. How could it be that he finally got what he desired and it broke his heart to have it? He wasn’t terribly surprised; Javert had been unlucky all his life. But now that fate had conspired against him at his most vulnerable time, in the wake of tragedy for seeing the fallen students, the mourning silence that coupled with the stench of blood and death, the filth of the sewer he’d clung to to save Valjean more hardship. After finally knowing what it was to have someone so close to his heart, finally being happy.

Javert sobbed openly and began to mount the parapet. He was swiftly pulled from it, however, by a resolute grip, and shoved violently to the pillar beside him. It was not a concerned face he saw when he looked up through his tears. It was Thénardier and he was furious.

“Where’ve you been?!” the man demanded, shaking the inspector. Javert could not find voice to respond, only uttering broken and confused sounds, “I’ve been trying to find you for a week! They all tell me you’ve been with Valjean this whole time, finding him out. Have you done it? Have you found proof?”

Javert sobbed, “I cannot do this! He has paid for his crimes; leave me be!”

“You little whelp!” Thénardier shouted, hefting Javert higher against the stone so his feet left the ground. He choked and kicked, but found he was trapped, “You’ve been conspiring with him!”

“Unhand me—!”

“We had a deal!”

“I will not denounce a good man!”

Thénardier raged and threw him to the ground, kicking him in the stomach and making Javert retch in pain. He kicked him until Javert vomited, then fell upon him, punching him and cursing his name. Javert screamed for help, but all was quiet save for his and Thénardier’s shouts and the impacts of Thénardier’s fists against him.

Mercifully, it stopped. Thénardier fell sharply away from him, screaming, and Javert heard more of those violent sounds but felt nothing. He looked up in a daze to see that Valjean had pulled Thénardier away and was beating him to a pulp, rage unhindered and righteous. Javert whimpered quietly and let his head rest against the pavement while Valjean drove the con-man away.

He was then at Javert’s side as the world was growing dark, picking him up and holding him tightly. He was saying something, frantic and hushed, but Javert could only hear muffled sounds. Valjean’s embrace and comforting scent lulled him into sleep, where he finally felt safe and untroubled.

He did not wake for some time.

-

When the light came to him, it was bright and soft, like the light of overcast streaming through curtains. Then pain settled over him in his head and stomach. Bruises not yet healed, but it didn’t feel more serious than any injury he’d sustained before. He thanked God for the little miracles, opening his eyes, and seeing Valjean at a desk beside him, reading the Bible.

Javert allowed himself to smile.

“ _Bon matin_ ,” he rasped; his throat was dry. Valjean looked sharply to him, relief and concern knit tightly together in his expression.

“Javert...” he breathed, coming to sit on the bedside, “Are you well?”

“Sore,” Javert admitted, shifting up against the pillow at his back, “But it is manageable.”

There was a pause in which Valjean’s hand closed around Javert’s.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, “For saving my life.”

Valjean smiled and the world was brighter.

“Anything.”

Javert then took in his surroundings, finding them familiar but not very comforting, “Where am I?”

“Back at the hospital. I was afraid you were seriously hurt in your attack... I thank God I thought you might be at your bridge, else, who knows,” Valjean sat back, “Why did you run off last night?”

Javert dodged the question, “I am not so badly injured. I am sore, yes, but I do not need the doting of nuns to heal me.”

“You underestimate pity.”

“I do not need pity. I do not _want_ pity. I want to go home.”

“As soon as the sisters say you can. I don’t want to take any chances.”

Javert huffed and crossed his arms but found the pain in his abdomen was too great for it. He settled for clasping his hands over his stomach.

“How is the boy?”

“Still asleep. But his wounds were cleaned and he should wake soon.”

“Why in hell did you risk your life for Pontmercy of all things?”

“Oh, so you know him,” Valjean grinned mirthfully. Javert snorted.

“Last night was not the first time his friends caused a disturbance. Pontmercy was known for being their most eloquent member.”

Valjean raised his eyebrows sharply at this. Javert shrugged, “The boy makes a fine parrot.”

“That’s fair. Hopefully he will make a fine husband for Cosette.”

“Ah!” Javert exclaimed in sudden understanding, “That is why! Your daughter is taken with him.”

“Unfortunately. Not that Marius is not a good boy, I believe he is, but...”

“It is regrettable.”

“I won’t say that,” Valjean glanced away, “But yes. A bit.”

The two men chuckled and for a moment it seemed as if all had been resolved. Of course, Javert knew, nothing was simple and soon the question returned to plague him, “Why did you run, Javert?”

The heaviness settled upon the inspectors heart once more and he knew now he could not escape it. Valjean was owed so much; the truth should be an inconsequential matter. Still, it ached to know he would sever this bond that had formed between them.

“You will not like the reason,” Javert began quietly, avoiding his eye, “But you deserve the truth. A few weeks ago, when we crossed paths in the square, Thénardier told me that you were his victim. At first, I couldn’t believe it; I’d presumed you dead for so many years...”

“Ah,” Valjean grunted, “The drowning.”

“Yes, the _drowning_. But knowing you were alive was... indescribable. And justice was finally within my grasp but I needed proof. That was when I asked Thénardier to help me, being the only person who even knew you existed. We struck an accord to find you out.”

“Javert!” Valjean interrupted again, though his anger was clear this time. Javert flinched away, keeping his head down, “You damned fool!”

“W-why am I a fool??”

“You trusted a murderer?! Is that why he attacked you? You damned fool, what the hell were you thinking?!”

Javert stammered uselessly, clearly getting flustered by Valjean’s rage, though it did not come to him as he’d expected. He perhaps thought Valjean would attack him as well or leave him entirely and never be seen again. He would welcome that. He was deserving of it. But to have Valjean yell at him for risking his life...

“My God, Javert, the man would throw a child into the Seine for a _sou_!”

“Which brings me back to the Seine,” Javert continued meekly, face red. Valjean sat back, rage still burning in his chest. But he would be polite and wait for the story to conclude.

“I had noticed... your number. Etched into your back. And finally, I had proof. But... so much has changed and the weight of it overcame me. I didn’t know what to do,” Javert’s hands shook as he rubbed at his face. He would not cry in front of Valjean, “I knew what I _must_ do. It is my obligation to arrest you; you were a criminal! But I could not because I have seen you are a good man. I see so much of Madeleine in you still and it was too much for me to bear.”

Javert took a sobering breath and closed his eyes, “I ran to Point-au-change to kill myself. It was the only way you could remain a free man.”

He felt a tear roll down his cheek and quickly wiped it away.

Beside him, Valjean remained quiet. Javert did not chance a look at him, afraid of seeing the anger and disappointment he knew he must feel. But then he felt a hand on his and looked to see Valjean’s heartbroken face.

“Javert...”

He shook his head, choking on his words, “Do not argue with me! I have made up my mind; I know what must be done. I would rather suffer the trials of hell than condemn you to the lash!”

“Shut up!” Valjean suddenly screamed, “Shut up, damn you! Don’t you ever say such a thing! Don’t you ever value your life less than mine, do you hear me?!”

“Valjean—”

“No! Listen to me! You have been entirely reckless with your life on my account and I will not stand for it! Not only did you nearly get bludgeoned to death because you were foolish enough to trust scum like Thénardier but you sought out to drown yourself for my sake?! Are you an idiot??”

Javert took the abuse in stride. Valjean finally settled, though anger still ruled him, and rubbed at his forehead to ease an on-coming headache.

“You _are_ an idiot.”

“I know.”

“Do you understand why?”

“Because I nearly killed myself.”

“Yes. And there is nothing on earth I would want less than your death.”

Javert looked to him finally and saw the honesty there.

“Javert, you and Cosette are the only two people I care about,” he was softer now, hand gently soothing Javert’s, “I would rather suffer the lash a thousand times than see harm come to you.”

This genuine concern was entirely new to Javert, who could barely breathe under the weight of love.

It was love, wasn’t it?

“Please... don’t ever do this to me again.”

“Alright,” Javert agreed quietly and curled his hand around Valjean’s. Valjean leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the younger man’s temple, squeezing his hand in tandem. Most, but not all, of Javert’s guilt dissipated in that moment, and he realized what a colossal idiot he had been in the past 48 hours.

“I’ve been a colossal idiot.”

“Yes, but you’ve been my idiot.”

When Javert turned his head to retort to this gentle abuse, their noses brushed and a jolt of electricity jumped between them. For a moment, they were still, and Javert could not utter a sound. The sisters entered Javert’s room then to check on them, aborting the moment of intimacy. Javert could feel his heart racing long after Valjean exited to leave him to his doctors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait. real life got hectic. hopefully the longer chapter makes up for it.
> 
> smut is forth-coming at some point soon. don't worry.


End file.
